


Flood

by cimorene



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-02
Updated: 2009-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-04 02:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cimorene/pseuds/cimorene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secret Slasha story 2003. Billy has always been obsessed with drowning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flood

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by K'Sal and Cupidsbow; thanks to Esorlehcar for a kindly correction. Warning: dramatic, purple, embarrassing early work

As a small child Billy was serious. As a baby, his head was a little too large and narrow and domed for his spindly neck, his eyes unnervingly big. Billy grew gradually into his neck and eyes, and, to a lesser extent, his head, which was still domed, but no longer large enough to completely dominate his body. In baby pictures he looked like a little turtle blinking sagely, squinting at the camera, his mouth wet with drool.

He remembered that sometimes later in life, when he was watching the sun rise, when he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe, when he was waking up all at once, warm and still and restless, feeling roped to the bed with lassitude. Because really, Billy as an adult was not very serious.

But especially for the past few years he hadn't been serious. It was hard to be totally serious around these people who magically became the best friends you'd ever had, and all you wanted to do was laugh, and smile, and talk a mile a minute, pouring yourself out, drinking them in, mixing together happily, looking for perfect happiness and feeling together instead of alone.

One morning the sun rose lazily and sat heaped on the horizon like a puddle of pink grapefruit juice, running out along the hills and blending wetly with the clouds. Billy sat on the porch of his little house in New Zealand without coffee and thought about Orlando. His hands were cold, warming only gradually in the weak, thin sunlight. His feet were stiff and unwieldy like bricks in his shoes, the way feet sometimes are in the morning. His mouth was thin and tight because he was pinching his lips together, frowning at the ground.

The problem was that he wanted Orlando.

Billy liked men and loved women. He always had. He liked the strength of another man; he liked the male smell of them and found it comforting.

He loved women the way he loved shortbread biscuits at Christmas: he didn't want them all the time and he wasn't sure why, and when he had them he gorged himself until he thought he couldn't keep down another buttery bite. Women drew his eyes and kept them so he couldn't look away, their alien grace, their skin, smooth and fine-grained so you could _see_ its scent and its feel. At the same time women frightened him a little.

Orlando, while unquestionably a man, seemed to combine the best qualities of men--the strength, the depth and rumblability of voice, the ability to drink until he fell unconscious and lie on the floor making stupid jokes about pissing and sex--with the mysterious qualities of women. Orlando was graceful without being fragile. His skin was smooth without being femininely soft. But he laughed with his whole head and shoulders and chest, flashing large white teeth. He had bad breath. He liked to wrestle. He had terrible taste in clothes and wore them anyway. He didn't care if he got dirty. He didn't care that people stared at him everywhere he went--he didn't even seem to notice.

And Orli drew Billy's eyes. He kept them, being sometimes radiant and sometimes strangely ordinary, and beautiful and sometimes, from the right angle, ugly--but no matter what, Billy didn't want to look away.

The way Billy thought about it this morning while the sun crept like a half-feral cat across the planks of the porch--what use a woman, next to Orli? What was there left to want in a woman that Orlando didn't have?

Like a microcosm of the differences between men and women and his two different wants for them, two different desires for Orli struggled to balance themselves within Billy's mind. He had entire conversations with himself about them.

Desire should be a simple thing.

Sometimes it was. Billy looked at Orli's long limbs and wanted to hold on to them, clamp around them with his arms and legs while they writhed against him as if Orli were trying to get away. He wanted to press Orlando's legs apart and move between them, and open his pants and thrust into Orlando's body without pausing to take their clothes off. Orlando would stiffen and press back and grunt and they would bite each other like men and Orlando would shine with sweat and undulate gracefully, as he couldn't help being graceful. They would jerk against each other breathless. The pleasure would be painful. Orlando's arse would be tight and the friction would rub them raw. Billy's prick would pulse and strain in its constriction and he would thrust in and out, in and out, frantically and forcefully and Orli would gasp and groan and grab him and claw him.

While the many fantasy scenarios (of which that was only Billy's favorite) were fairly detailed, the desire itself was simple and straightforward.

That was what he didn't mind. Desiring Orli was nothing out of the ordinary, because practically everyone did it.

But there was another kind of desire, and Billy wasn't happy with it at all. If wanting Orlando were as simple as he was convinced it should be, would he be sitting here on the porch, with cold hands, frowning at the ground until he gave himself a headache? He didn't even have coffee or a cuppa. He was alone with the morning. The sun had reached almost to the door without his noticing, and he had a feeling the sun had not noticed him either.

* * *

Orlando never felt so desperately, peevishly alone as when he was with Billy. It made him uncomfortable, being with just Billy--and it was too complicated for him to entirely explain to himself, something about how he sort of wanted Billy without understanding why, and because he thought it would really be better not to want him since Billy was a mate of his, and sleeping with his mates was rarely a good idea.

Of course it didn't mean he had to sleep with Billy--he just really, _really_ wanted to fuck him. As a connoisseur of orgasms, Orlando could tell himself critically that Billy was probably not all that brilliant a lay. He was short and Scottish. His dick was of good, but not really great, size. He was thin and easy-going. Billy was a quintessential mate, a perfect one-of-the-guys.

Besides which Orlando had an excellent intuition about how good someone was in bed--he was often wanted at pubs by his friends and even by friends-of-friends to assess potential pick-ups.

This was not ego, and Orlando didn't evaluate or judge his ability, or put much store in it--although he did tell the other members of the Fellowship frankly because he liked them and they would very probably want to know before long. It was a useful talent and he trusted it.

So despite knowing Billy was probably going to come up a little short, Orlando found himself absolutely convinced he would _really_ enjoy this fuck. Billy heated the pit of his belly and warmed his whole abdomen, made his hands feel prickly and over-aware, occasionally even made him clumsy, made him curse.

The fuck in question was hypothetical, because it would be a particularly bad idea with Billy. Billy was one of his three best mates, with Elijah and Dom, and while fucking Dom, for instance, would likely be pleasant and no-strings, like a good pint of beer, fucking Billy would be indefinably different. He _liked_ Billy, and while he was good mates with him he didn't feel he really knew him.

He tried to know Billy and he never could. Hours of his company, six months already under their belts of spitting and pissing contests, drinking one another (and Elijah and Dom, and occasionally Astin and Bean and Viggo) under the table--he knew Billy's Gran's voice from four feet away coming tinnily from a cell phone, knew the stupidest things about his childhood and his disastrous first lay, his most embarrassing moment, his favorite color, his habit of sleeping on the couch sprawled like a starfish slowly oozing onto the floor--and he _still_ didn't know _Billy._

Billy was somewhere under there, an unknowable person, a bug that couldn't be kept in a jar, a flavor that you chased with your tongue all over a cake until you'd eaten enough of it to burst at the seams and feel positively sick, and you still couldn't identify it except to say it was definitely neither coconut nor lemon.

Anyway, Orlando didn't intend to sleep with Billy, but it was hard to remember when they were around each other. As a connoisseur of orgasms, he had a mind which was easily diverted to sex and not so easily diverted away from it. He tended to take sex lightly, but he also tended to _have_ sex lightly, and having had a lot of it didn't make it any easier to think when he was smolderingly horny.

He and Billy were looking for a present for Astin's wife and Dom and Elijah, the stupid wankers, had fucked off somewhere giggling hysterically and were probably playing video games at this very moment. Dom had given him two twenties, as if cash were the problem, and Elijah had acted like he was going to whisper in Orlando's ear and then licked it instead.

Rubbing at his ear irritably, Orlando stared at Billy's crotch while Billy was looking away and shifted his legs a little further apart to adjust himself in his pants--just the beginning of hardness there, but enough to be uncomfortable because his jeans were snug through the hips and over his arse.

Orlando wasn't shy about checking out another man's goods--even less so, that is, than most blokes were. He was curious, was all. Except it wasn't really all with Billy. He was always trying to picture Billy's good-but-not-great cock, and more importantly, thinking about the feel of it.

His arse was hot with pooled blood, sensitive so he could feel his cheeks rubbing together under his jeans. He wanted a good fuck, a prick stuffed deep inside until he was full, splitting apart, sweaty, growling, shouting and out of breath.

If they were in a pub he probably could have picked out some likely bloke and gotten off in the washroom--even a hand job would do; but here they were in a miserable department store while it was a beautiful day outside, and instead of any kind of dick whatsoever, a collection of stupid little glass ornaments were staring him in the face.

He was in a department store feeling alone and dangerously close to sad, wanting and telling himself he couldn't have, with the smell of Billy's hair constantly near to his nose and no odor of alcohol to cover it up.

"What about this one then?" Said Billy, holding up an amorphous paperweight-like blob.

"What is that?"

"Incense holder."

"Too ugly," said Orlando. He rather liked it, and it was okay for a paperweight but lousy for an incense holder. Besides which, would Christine really _want_ a glass incense holder? "Listen," he said, "Maybe a glass ornament isn't the right thing."

"Christmas soon," Billy explained, picking up a blue glass skier on a gold glitter ribbon.

"It's August!" Orlando said impatiently.

Billy shrugged and smiled and stuffed his long-fingered rounded compact pretty little hand into his pocket. His jeans tended to the baggy and too-large. This pair hung from a belt a little above the hips, big square pockets starting after the ripe curve of his firm arse, the zipper long and a little obscene. Then again, in this frame of mind Orlando would have found a banana smoothie unpleasantly suggestive.

"So how about something not glass," said Orlando.

Billy raised one eyebrow, creating a profusion of forehead wrinkles. "It was your idea in the first place," he said agreeably, "if you've got another one?"

Infuriatingly adult. "Uhm," Orlando muttered. "Sweater."

"Hey, that's a good one!" said Billy, "Except we don't know her size." Orlando looked away with difficulty from Billy's delicate pink lips--

"Alright then. Potpourri. Or a clay pot."

"Or just a bag of pot," said Billy innocently.

"A bong."

"Crystal meth."

"Case of stout, that really good kind at that pub over in. Um?"

"_Playboy_ desk calendar."

They were both really giggling by now and, thank God, well away from the glass ornaments-section of the store. "A good vibrator."

"She could use one," said Billy with an irresistibly Puckish face.

"What, I like her," Orlando got out in the midst of his surprised laughter, feeling naughty.

"Oh yes," said Billy, "but _everyone_ could use one."

"Oh, okay," Orlando said, "That's true." And felt like a dirty old man, leering at Billy and thinking about good vibrators, but didn't bother to stop himself.

* * *

"Oh, Orlando!" Billy exclaimed and reached out unthinkingly for his friend's arm to pull him around a display shelf.

Orli's elbow almost knocked into it and sent crockery cascading across the floor, because his other hand was wedged in his pocket, unavailable to be used for balancing. But instead of that he stepped on Billy's toe by accident and the pots and plates were safe.

Billy took a step back and muttered a curse, and all was well, if you ignored the part about getting itchily randy and his dick pulsing every now and then to remind him that Orlando was present.

He let go Orli's arm and pointed proudly at what he'd found, plates in dusty deep-water indigo, and matching hand-painted ones with swirling green and bursts of cherry mixed in, little crockery mugs and everything, oversize salt and pepper shakers.

Orli said, "Hmm. It's so _blue_," and it was, a lot of shades of it. "It just looks like a lot of water."

"Yeah. But come on. It'll be great, no woman could say no to this, at least, not unless she was crazy. Women love stuff like that, the teapots and the plates, the painting."

Orli wasn't hard to convince, mostly because he wanted to get out of the store.

They said they'd have the package delivered and watched the blue on blue disappear into store-monogrammed tissue paper. So blue, smooth, and watery, the swirling pattern so hypnotic. Billy had had a little Ark when he was a boy, a toy one; and he would build toy boats out of anything and everything he could find, biscuits, forks and plates, bits of paper, wooden blocks. He was frankly obsessed by water. He was obsessed by the idea of drowning.

He wrote stories about it and drew pictures of drowning. His drowned people always had their eyes open, so his teachers didn't realize they were dead without asking, until he was old enough to render their expressions of horror, open mouths, eyes bugging open, waving tendrils of hair like strangling seaweed.

He'd wanted a tree house just so he could pretend it was a houseboat and he'd sit in the branches, imagining the world filling like a bathtub until the leafy treetops looked like they were floating on it, and the water was deep and dark and full of broken toys and bits of houses floating about. He'd used to fantasize about sitting in an overturned umbrella and bobbing and twirling through the water like a fallen leaf in a mud puddle.

Blue had always been his favorite color.

They bought a giant serving bowl and four little ones for salad and the salt and pepper shakers just because Orlando insisted, and walked out of the department store into the sunshine.

The air was crisp and autumnal, the sky clear blue. The streets of Wellington were buzzing calmly and quietly along like a patch of flowers scattered with self-absorbedly industrious bees.

"Thank God that's over!" said Orli with great feeling.

Billy looked over at him, surprised, raising his eyebrows. "It wasn't so bad."

Orli frowned inward for a moment and said, "I want to go to the park." Then he tossed over his shoulder without looking around, "Say that again--''Twasn't soh baad.'" He did a rough, gurgly approximation of a Scottish brogue.

Billy laughed and did. He felt uneasy, though, walking along behind Orlando into the park and cutting across the grass, watching the easy loping stride, the way the denim pulled tightly across his arse, outlining the undercurves for a moment when he stuffed his fists in his pockets.

The ugly shirt of the day was a ridiculous camel-colored button-down made out of cotton with a poncy flare from waist to hip. Worn unbuttoned, with the cuffs flopping undone, it was kind of like a jacket, and when Orli swung his arms and turned his torso it bracketed every move. It was silly, sort of mismatched, but it looked good on him--elegant.

The trees were getting closer around the path, shadowing out the sun on the grass. They passed by a bench and Billy kept watching Orli's footsteps and putting his feet where Orli had walked, watching his hips and his shoulders and his waist and thinking so hard and densely about grabbing him around the waist and pulling his back against Billy's front that he could almost feel it.

It was a while before he realized he was drawing closer and closer and they hadn't spoken for several bends of the path. A grassy hill unrolled before them like a bit of the Shire, with a little hut on it with toilets inside. The air was sparking on his skin. It almost smelled of rain.

"Wait, what's that," Orli said, stiffening like a dog on a scent and moving swiftly towards the toilets. Billy, feeling very strange, followed like there was a leash tied to him. Where Orli stopped was a worn wooden bench against the exterior wall of the little hut, just around the corner from the door of the men's toilet under the window, shadowed by the overhang. The air was pale, and barely turning violet under the trees in the distance.

Billy flopped onto the bench like a puppet with its strings cut, feeling almost dizzy. Orli stood next to him, halfway in front of him, shifting from foot to foot. "Shhh," he said.

Inside was the muted ringing sound of voices pitched low and echoing on tile. It floated around the corner from the doorway and out of the open window. They both listened, and Orlando stretched his neck alertly, and Billy watched Orlando and felt sick, light-headed and drunken, with wanting. He was afraid he was going crazy.

_ "M... harder--"_

_"Yessss."_

And the soft sticking and slapping of flesh. Orli quirked his eyebrows twice and stretched on his tiptoes, cocking his ear to the window.

A soft laugh.

A muffled grunt or groan. What might have been a name.

_"Ahh--there--"_

_"Yeah."_

Orlando was laughing silently, bright and sparkling with leashed giggles. Billy, who was blushing furiously and cursing coincidence, himself, Orlando, his hormones, and whatever deity would listen, realized belatedly that one of the voices could have been a woman's, and both were soft and muffled--hands over mouths? He wondered. If he presses his hand to her mouth and she pants humidly against his palm--if he buries his face in the slick curve of her neck, against the straining tendon, against her spine, if he bites the back of her neck--it might sound like that. Or maybe they were muffled with kissing, the sounds lost in one another's mouths.

Dry lips and a drier throat were the inevitable result of sitting with his mouth open for so long. Billy could practically feel heat rolling from his neck and ears into the cooling near-dusk.

There was a whisper of cloth and he thought they were probably finished. Orli turned and looked back at Billy and mouthed something totally incomprehensible.

_"What?"_ Billy mouthed back.

The same gestures were repeated and exaggerated, but he'd still no idea what Orlando meant to say.

Then he realized that footsteps were moving to the door on the other side of the wall and that Orli was moving with no apparent hesitation towards the corner as if to meet them face-to-face. The whole horrifying encounter with the anonymous couple flashed in his imagination, complete with introductions and Orli's devilish uncaring grin. He half-leapt to his feet, reaching out, and caught Orli about the ribs as he'd done any hundred times before playfully.

* * *

Orlando was subject, sometimes, to the strangest altered states of consciousness. Like now, he really felt as though he had two skins, and the thin membranous inner surface of himself, flushed bright red, had forced itself painfully through his outer skin and was even now stretching and expanding into the air around him, pulsing with heat, while his dry formerly-outer skin dripped and sweated with blood.

His head pounded; his hands tingled; all his awareness dripped down his spine, settled in his stomach and weighted it till it sank like a lead balloon to his groin.

His arse and the creases of his legs were sweaty, his cock starting to stiffen even with no stimulation and chafing against the inner seam of his jeans.

When Billy's perfect little hand spread against his hip, the other arm hooking around his ribcage, and pulled him back, all the air around him rushed away and left him like a landed fish. And the blood stilled and turned heavy and he went limp and pliant and stumbled obediently back.

_Scuff, scuff_ went Billy's ridiculous little driving moccasins on the ground and Billy pulled him back onto the bench. He folded into Billy's lap and there he was sitting with his thighs parted, looking dumbly down at Billy's knees in between his.

Billy pressed all along his back. The subtle scent of Billy's hair was almost swallowed in a fainter musk that made Orlando clamp his mouth shut on a rumbly growl that wanted to escape.

Nostrils flaring, he scooted back with two little wriggles, on the pretext of getting more comfortable--and it wasn't by any means all his fault, because Billy's arms around his middle had actually tightened and Billy was whispering, _"Shh!"_, like he didn't realize all that stood between Orlando's arse and his good-but-not-great prick were two pairs of jeans, and possibly some undergarments.

Orlando and Billy both stopped breathing as the bathroom-sex maniacs finally walked out the door just around the corner. Billy tightened the curve of his arm and made a fist in Orlando's favorite khaki shirt and Orlando said nothing; his own hands were tightening on his thighs because the last thing he wanted was interruption _now_.

He had made a gradual, conscious decision over the last minute or so to forget about his confused spider web of reasons not to fuck Billy. That decision had been completely cemented just now by the feel of Billy's cock hardening against his arse. The reasons had never made sense anyway and he couldn't remember them now even if he strained himself reaching.

So the footsteps went the other way--round the other side of the little bathhouse--and fell on the path going away from them, and gradually retreated. Billy and Orlando never got a glimpse of them at all.

_But it didn't matter._ It was already too late.

* * *

The world had drowned and re-made itself any number of times in the collective imaginations of its people. As long as there'd been people, as long as there'd been anger, turning seasons, blood and sex and birth and death and war and mystery and as long as people had looked up at the sky and down at the earth for something outside themselves, there had been Floods.

But what if Noah hadn't built the Ark? What if Noah hadn't trusted himself to the boat, but had stayed and drowned with all the other people of the Earth because he was one of them, because he loved them?

The rains falling, the air awash in electric charge as the water swirled higher and higher. The creeping cold, the torrents, the ripping tearing crashing rush of water smashing everything in its path. The seep of it into mouth and nose and lungs until the water was like air and there was no more breathing and the instants before death stretching out into water-logged eternity, a whole world, a whole life--even a short one--underwater. Not alone.

* * *

They were alone now, still and silent, with only the wind and and the sunset.

Billy's arms just--tightened more, like bands around Orlando's chest. The only sound was Billy's breath in his ear, until he was held about as tightly as he could be and still breathe.

He left the moment to hang there like a glass ornament balanced on the edge of a shelf, on the edge of falling. When the tightness in his throat dissipated Orlando meant to say something but found, opening his mouth, that instead he had to cough and clear his throat. But before he could speak--the sound had broken the spell.

Billy's hands were flat on his chest one instant, and the next they were on his thighs, sliding up. But then they _stopped_. Looking down, Orlando could see the delicate fingers on his fly, the dirty nails, the oddly elegant hollow on the edge of Billy's wrist, and Billy had hooked a thumb through one of Orlando's belt loops and let his fingers rest on the button.

Blink, blink again--then he realized. Unbelievable, asking for permission! Orlando didn't know what to say. What do you have to say to give someone permission to undo your fly when you're pressed back against them, wriggling to rub your arse on their dick, and clearly aroused?

Maybe the problem was that he wasn't wriggling enough--that one wriggle, before, might not count, and the little tremors going through him as his body tried to decide whether to hold still or not might not either.

He made himself relax, sweet and boneless, and put his head back on Billy's shoulder, which gave him an odd view of Billy's jaw. He stretched his head back further, lifting his throat, which felt hot and damp, and pressed his hands on the bench beside Billy's thighs.

Just the thought made his brain stutter: Billy's _thighs_. Every moment of this waiting was making him feel worse and worse, like a hollow vortex of hunger, a painful desire to consume Billy, to press him in through every pore until there was no more Billy left outside, to digest him and _have_ him and understand him somehow. And the feeling just kept getting scarier and scarier, and Orlando bucked his hips and ignored the fear, because he was pretty sure, now, that he could at least get a really good fuck out of this.

"Mmm," said Billy as he undid Orlando's fly. One hand was on each side of it after he flicked the button out, pulling the sides apart, and he pushed both of them inside and made another noise of appreciation and then Orlando had to close his eyes because his cock was pushing out into the air throbbing hard, with both of Billy's hands closing around it. He could feel fingernails, callused palms. Billy said as if to himself, "That's it."

"Please," Orlando muttered, trying not to grit his teeth the way he was squeezing his eyes shut. This wasn't making the wanting any easier yet.

Billy's hands moved up to the waistband of the jeans and tried to push them down. They were fairly tight, and he'd been sweating and going commando all day, and now was sitting with Billy's thighs between his. It just wasn't possible to get them off without shifting his weight.

They did this, or rather Billy did it, by doubling Orlando forward. He was able to get his weight on his feet that way and straightened a little automatically--not far with Billy's warmth still up against his back.

(Just the motion of standing up had rubbed them together groin-to-arse, and Billy had felt larger than Orlando ever quite imagined.)

But once he was standing a little Billy pulled his jeans down, still facing his back, Orlando still looking away and shivering in the cold. Once they got past sticking at the tops of his thighs they fell to the knees, because the thighs of the jeans were cut much looser.

Billy dragged him back down with a hand guiding his hip. "Sit," he murmured huskily, deep-throated.

Orlando sat straddling Billy's knees again, his bare arse on Billy's thighs and his jeans ridiculously stretched between his knees. He pushed at the fabric, trying to get them over his feet, while Billy behind him fiddled very intently with his own pants--button, then zipper, then reaching into the front opening of a pair of blue cotton boxers.

From the corner of Orlando's eye Billy's dick--reddened, fully erect--looked _so good_ Orlando bit his lip, and it turned out he just didn't have time to get his jeans all the way off. Billy took hold of his hips roughly, one with each hand, fingernails biting into Orlando's flesh, and pulled him backwards.

The cool metal of the zipper cut into one of his cheeks but he really didn't care. He didn't approve of the way Billy was nestling his prick in the cleft of Orlando's ass and jerking his hips to pull him back, rubbing and teasing.

Orlando realized only dimly that Billy's mouth was open and hot and wet on his shoulder. He was trying very hard to string two thoughts together, but there were splinters in one of his hands, Billy's prick thrusting against his arse so close to what he wanted, and he couldn't think of where he might--

"Lotion," he finally gasped. There was some in his pocket, hand lotion, actually, in one of those little girly squeeze tubes, which one of the makeup ladies had given him along with a lecture about keeping his skin smooth and Elvish.

"Get it then," said Billy immediately.

He had to think for a second to remember where his pocket was. He'd not moved his legs since Billy pushed his knees up between them and started thrusting.

"There," he said thickly, and leaned ponderously forward. The air was very cold, and he had a disoriented flash when Billy's hand thrust forward under Orlando's arm, because it was such an ordinary gesture, but here he was sitting naked and they were going to fuck.

Billy didn't do a very careful job--just a glob of lotion, and half a second, literally. "Up," he said briskly, even that in a Scotch accent.

Leaning forward, trying to get leverage to rise just a _little_, Orlando almost tripped over his jeans. "Fuck," he said disgustedly and kicked so violently that he freed his left foot.

And then Billy held two hands tightly on his hips again, steadying, one slippery with hand lotion, and pulled him steadily back until he felt the thick head at his opening and all the breath left his body in one deep long breath and the motion continued without slowing at all; the pressure increased, quickly, and then he felt his body giving way eagerly and he gasped. He could feel the head, and the direction of the thrust, and the thickness going in after it stretching him so far there was a tearing soreness just in the ring of muscle.

But he gasped too soon; it wasn't over. He was stretching deliciously and Billy was driving deeper inside. His prick felt so good, pressing deeper up towards the throbbing center of Orlando, filling him to bursting and still filling him further until his thighs settled firmly on Billy's.

Billy shifted their weight on the bench, and the hot, throbbing length of him lodged inside Orlando pulled and pushed perhaps a millimeter, with an uneven stirring motion that was too good for words, and stopped almost before it started, leaving him wanting and gasping and the sparks of sensation fading as his arse throbbed slickly around Billy's prick.

He stilled for a moment, put his mouth close to Orlando's ear, and whispered: "Right _there._ Are you comfortable?"

"What kind of--" he had to pause and breathe, and surprised himself with how uneven the breath was, as though he'd been crying-- "--Question is that?" He tightened his arse pointedly around Billy's prick.

Billy laughed, and didn't move--at least not inside him, because he did rest his lips just gently against the back of Orlando's neck, and one of his hands was smoothing down the outside of his leg. "Just making sure." His prick was throbbing, though.

Then he slid his hips forward on the bench so that he could slump back in a fluid curve, reclining/curving Orlando with him. When the leverage was good, he flexed his hips. He wasn't in all the way after all, only mostly, only seated firmly and almost his full length pressed inside. Orlando just wanted _any_ movement. The flex pulled Billy's cock out a tiny bit, and it felt thicker going that direction, actually, and then pushed it back in--still only a centimeter or so--but further than before, Orlando could tell, because inside him was alight with nerves and sparks of sensation, and Billy had thrust deeper to touch that spot just beyond where he'd reached before.

Now another spot throbbed in agony of waiting, just past where Billy could reach, and Orlando twisted his hips, trying to push down.

"Hmm," Billy said, a breath of surprised satisfaction puffing against Orlando's neck.

Orlando was past fighting fair. He tightened his muscles one after another in a smooth, rolling wave around Billy's cock from base to tip, finishing with a few pulses.

"Ah!--Oh," Billy said, and Orlando said,

"Come _on,_ Billy," but by that time he didn't have to because Billy had tightened his hands around Orlando's hips again, pushing up and flexing his hips to pull back in a swift, smooth, but very shallow move, and thrust back home much faster than that, and then before Orlando could savor that one motion, was still grasping for breath and hadn't closed his mouth, Billy withdrew again, faster still, and the _friction_ as he drove deeper this time and out and back in, with a sharp grunt of effort, reaching, reaching for the deepest place inside as Orlando wanted him to. But the weight across his lap, melted back reclining on his chest, pressed him into the bench and made a full range of movement impossible.

Orlando could only move his hips helplessly, driving himself back, writhing and pushing himself onto that hard, hot prick and spreading his thighs apart, tensing them, as if that would do any good. Billy moved to hook his chin on Orlando's shoulder, breathing hard, and leaned forward as he slowly pulled back, halfway standing up and steadying them with his arms looped around Orlando's middle. Which made the movement of his prick inside Orlando less than even or smooth. _Ah._

Standing had forced him to withdraw almost completely. It had also changed the angle--Billy shuffled forward half a step and the movement drove him shockingly deep all at once, seating them firmly groin-to-arse again.

"Oh--" Orlando gasped, tightening reflexively against the movement.

Billy growled at that and flexed his hips, rising on his tiptoes, to push that tiny bit further inside. With Billy pressed full-length against his back, Orlando was almost surprised to feel the button and teeth of the zipper against his arse cheeks again--he had forgotten them. "Against the bench, come on then," Billy whispered, almost a croon.

Orlando turned around hesitantly, putting his hand out for the back of the bench, which stirred Billy's dick in wicked curling swirls, pulling it out just in burning teasing increments. The steps he took toward the bench separated their bodies entirely.

Then he almost tripped over the jeans tangled around his right ankle as he spread his legs, bracing his arms against the back of the bench and facing the wall of the little hut. But Orli arched his back in invitation and looked over his shoulder, and he didn't wait long because this had ceased a long time ago to be about waiting.

* * *

All of Billy's sexual fantasies about fucking Orlando were long and detailed, encompassing a wide array of techniques and thrusts, more than Billy thought he'd ever used topping with a man before, though he couldn't remember for sure. They tended to disintegrate into wanking around the time he thought about starting the second time around. He'd never had to use his hands to guide his dick into place in a fantasy, but he'd done it often enough in reality and he knew he wanted the right angle on the first thrust.

Orlando's cheeks were spread with his legs, the pink opening flushed to purple, wet and sticky with hand lotion and sweat and pre-come, his cock bobbing, weeping, in front of him because both of his hands were clenched on the back of the bench. Billy took a moment to admire the way the forgotten sweat-damp shirt stuck to his back and the long pale lines of bare leg.

Then he removed his hand and thrust all the way as deep inside as he could with one quick hard thrust, the kind he fantasized about all the time, and it was good, so good like that, Orlando's hole loosened and slick and easy to enter, hot and still tight inside, folding close around him and drawing him deeper, making him forget everything except the drive to possess for the duration of each wild thrust. Every withdrawal, every time thought intruded, Billy felt angrier with himself, for letting this happen in the first place, for being drawn to Orli like moth to flame, and each time he thrust harder to cover the sound of his thinking.

The first thrust found the perfect angle, hitting the sweet spot deep inside and rubbing against it, from the way Orli stiffened, arched and writhed backwards, impaling himself, letting his head hang between taut arms as he drove back into the next thrust.

Billy didn't want to take his time, didn't mean to, but they'd been fucking for longer than he'd ever meant already and he couldn't just _take_, couldn't just do it hard and fast and rough with those long-yet-fast dream movements while Orlando grunted and sweated in manly fashion. He couldn't look at Orlando and feel him, and want that.

He paced himself. He measured the length of this thrust out, silently counting his heartbeat and feeling silly for doing it, as Orlando shuddered under him and then twitched jerkily alight when he moved back inside at the same angle, rubbing along the prostate as slowsweetlong as he dared.

Billy didn't mind that he was drowning. It wasn't so bad once your lungs filled with water. He bent forward and pressed his lips to the back of Orlando's neck and wrapped his hand around Orlando's prick and thrust faster, more shallowly, giving him the stimulation he needed. Orli almost sobbed in relief and when Billy felt the long slender body in his arms _really_ stiffen all over he came all at once, surprising himself--he had thought he had taken back control, that he was only _giving_ to Orlando.

Even now was he so desperate, still telling himself these lies?

His body tightened painfully like a fist that becomes a hand-cramp, and his orgasm went through him in too-strong waves. His muscles unknotted and shivered shockily, spirals unwinding and turning, little vessels of tension exploding like miniature firecrackers in his his hands, then the back of his neck, then his nipples, then the small of his back.

He gave a long shudder of reluctant release and turned his face, open-mouthed, against Orli's shoulder, and let all the bitter waves of release crash over him and through him, numbing him inside, until finally one lifted him and carried him away.

* * *

Finally it came, the explosive finale, the well-timed, perfectly-aimed torturous too-long thrusts against his prostate, rubbing it both directions to the point of over stimulation.

Something broke. Orlando opened his mouth to speak and no words came. His knuckles were white; Billy couldn't have noticed that, but he leaned forward again purposefully.

Orlando shivered at the feel of hot breath on the back of his neck where the skin was chilled with the evening air and Billy thrust sharply, short movements, quick and jerky and powerful and not entirely controlled.

He'd forgotten that his mouth was open.

Oh. Oh.

The last movement filled him perfectly, and he broke apart shuddering, and screaming, he thought, except he realized a moment later when he felt Billy's prick spurting inside him that he was still making no sound. Billy went still against his back, draped over him, and then paid out the rest of his own orgasm in slow, lazy, shallow, wet little thrusts, until at last it stopped and Billy stopped shivering and--everything stopped.

It was like a door slamming. Every motion and every breath of air and Billy had gone limp like liquid, like honey, as soft as the way he slept sprawled on the floor or the couch.

It wasn't until the orgasm faded that Orlando could feel it, but even through the just-fucked-through-the-fucking-wall haze, the chill started, because when he turned around Billy was looking at him very calmly, too calmly. He had no idea what Billy was thinking.

He reached out with both hands, to sort of make a last grab. It was the afterglow that made him try. "Alright?" He said and smiled.

Billy smiled back, but still Orlando couldn't tell what he thought, couldn't feel even for a second that they weren't strangers--

Or was that--when the corner of his mouth drooped--sadness?

"Al_right_?" said Billy, raising his eyebrows, and they both laughed. "What kind of a question is that?" The moment of madness was gone. The shutters were in place.

Orlando breathed a sigh and stood disheveled, half-naked, stinking of sex, bathed in sunset, and wondered if it had been a sigh of defeat or of relief.

End


End file.
